The Beast's Pen

This review was originally written for The Public Reviews: http://www.thepublicreviews.com

Thomas Mann’s 1912 novella Death in Venice is perhaps best known because of Luchino Visconti’s 1971 film adaptation, which is regarded by many as a masterpiece of European cinema. It also inspired a Benjamin Britten opera, first performed in 1973. The story was set at Venice Lido where an ageing writer (composer in the film) Gustav von Aschenbach was convalescing after illness and became obsessed with a teenage boy called Tadzio, whilst cholera raged in the city across the water. The soundtrack of the film featured prominently the mournful Adagietto from Mahler’s Fifth Symphony, leading to the supposition that Aschenbach was based on Mahler. In fact, the basis for the story was a real life encounter between Mann himself and an aristocratic Polish boy at the Lido in 1911. Mahler’s music plays as we enter the theatre, but Martin Foreman’s monologue draws less from the film than from Mann’s original novella. The old man and the boy did not speak to each other, leaving unanswered questions as to how the boy perceived his admirer. Foreman expands upon Mann’s work by telling the story from the viewpoint of Tadzio, as remembered 40 years later. Played by Christopher Peacock, Tadzio is dressed in a crumpled cream linen suit, still blond and handsome in middle age, but slightly world weary. Aschenbach regarded the boy as the epitome of youthful beauty, but Tadzio describes himself as a capricious adolescent, at one moment having adult thoughts that he was not yet ready to embrace, then, at the next, boyishly building sand castles. At first, he saw amazement and fear in the old man’s expressions, but, as his understanding grew, he recognised excitement behind the “quieter gaze” of his eyes. He tells us that he began to see Aschenbach as the “gatekeeper” to an adult world full of limitless possibilities and he even describes sexual fantasies involving him. Sadly, we learn that the intervening 40 years have been ones of disappointment and disillusionment and that he now thinks of the old man as his “jailer”, having been unable to fulfil expectations inspired by him or to escape memories left by him. It seems somewhat inconsistent with Mann’s story that the passive intrusion into the boy’s life described therein should have had such a profound affect on the man that he became. As we are offered very little specific detail of Tadzio’s adult life or the exact nature of his failures, it is difficult to understand why he shows bitterness towards Aschenbach, so that, in rounding off the original work, this play is not completely satisfying. Nonetheless, hearing Foreman’s eloquent and descriptive prose, here done full justice by Peacock’s performance, must be worth 45 minutes of anyone’s time.

This review was originally written for The Public Reviews: http://www.thepublicreviews.com

If walls had ears, so they say, and maybe eyes too, what stories would they have to tell? The walls of few buildings in the World can hold as many juicy secrets as those of Manhattan’s iconic Chelsea Hotel, home at various times to writers, musicians, artists and actors. Delving into this rich source of material, Earthfall Dance Company here sets about revealing some of those secrets and bringing to life the hotel’s inspirational effect, through dance, music, poetry and film. Two men and two woman are seen on a large screen at the rear of the stage, ascending in the hotel’s elevator. They are entering an artistic melting pot, where genius is fuelled by kindred spirits from past and present generations, mind-altering substances and free love. They have soon forgotten what “normal” looks like as they become immersed in a Bohemian lifestyle, accepting that, if they are, as artists, to represent the values of life, they firstly have to live. Images of the hotel are projected on the screen throughout, the scenes spanning more than a century. On stage, we see two girls from the 19th Century, dressed in frilly petticoats, dancing provocatively and flirting with what would then have been unthinkable. Perhaps they met Mark Twain at breakfast. They make way for a modern day gay couple fighting, followed by a pair practising sadomasochism, another pair involved in an intense and violent relationship and then two people coping with the after effects of drug abuse. Although spanning eras, the predominant feel, both visually and musically, is of the 1960s when Andy Warhol, Janis Joplin or Tennessee Williams would have walked these corridors. Or perhaps Bob Dylan – he took his surname from Dylan Thomas who died in a room here in 1953. The four performers are Ros Haf Brooks, Jessica Haener, Sebastian Langueneur and Alex Marshall Parsons. Occasionally, they speak in verse to a camera, when their faces are projected on the screen in close-up, but mostly they rely on movement and dance to convey images of the hotel and of the people living in it. They are all superb, whether dancing freestyle or coming together, precisely choreographed. Lara Ward and the entire company, take credit for the choreography and the text. The original rock score is also outstanding, being performed by the three composers, using electric guitars, a synthesiser and percussion. The only criticism is that it is not easy to make out the lyrics in the few sung sections. In the course of 70 absorbing and, at times, breathtaking minutes of physical theatre, the performers are able to suggest to us many things: that defiance of social norms can be integral to achieving artistic greatness; that the creation of art is a continuing process crossing generations; and that spirits from bygone ages can become embedded in a building. This show is as intoxicating as the place that inspired it.

Hot on the heels of Peter Morgan’s “The Audience”, Moira Buffini’s highly amusing new comedy takes another look at the relationship between The Queen and her Prime Minister; in this case, it is one specific Prime Minister – Margaret Thatcher, chronicling her period in office from May 1979 to November 1990; in those years, HM is played by Clare Holman and PM by Fenella Woolgar, but Buffini uses the very effective device of having an older HM (Marion Bailey) and PM (Stella Gonet) providing a commentary and distinguishing their versions of the truth from popular myths. All four are on stage for almost the entire play. Mention should also be made of Neet Mohan and Jeff Rawle who share all the male roles (plus that of Nancy Reagan) between them. If the humour in “The Audience” was gentle and respectful, this is much more political and veers towards hard-edged satire, with the two protagonists caricatured rather than being represented realistically. The underlying sentiments in the text have more than faint hints of leftish sympathising, but Thatcher is at least allowed to state her case and she is never reviled in the way that was so distasteful immediately after her death. As often with broad satire, the jokes sometimes dry up, but director Indhu Rubasingham keeps things moving at a brisk pace and adds several inventive touches. This limited run is already a sell out, so a West End transfer seems highly likely and well deserved it will be.

A hectoring battle-axe of a mother and a mild-mannered subservient son, the title characters of Martyn Hesford’s likeable comedy come across like figures from a Donald McGill postcard. She is bed-ridden (although possibly more from choice than because of ill-health), humiliated by the fact that her late husband’s indebtedness has forced the family to move into a working class area, thereby downgrading her social status. He works as a rent collector and devotes all his spare time to painting in the attic. She begs him to take up a useful hobby “such as darts or bowls” and, if he must paint, to focus on fruit or flowers rather than ugly industrial landscapes. Much of the humour derives from the obvious joke of the mother rubishing the son’s talent, relying on the certainty of the audience knowing the status that LS Lowry was destined to achieve, and repetition of the joke in various forms becomes rather tiresome as the play progresses. Nonetheless, Hesford has a keen ear for the language of ordinary Northerners, his dialogue delivering a steady flow of laughs. June Watson is perfect as the mother, but it is Michael Begley as Lowry who steals the show, frequently adopting a deadpan expression as he resigns himself to his mother badgering him and then turning his head to the audience to smirk and make knowing glances. Together, they are a formidable comic double act. Underpinning the comedy is a realistic depiction of a mutually dependent family relationship which is at times quite touching. It all adds up to a very enjoyable way of spending just under 90 minutes.

Arnold Wesker’s snapshot of life in 1950s Britain, during a period of whirlwind social change, is fascinating as a history lesson and, if somewhat dated in its dramatic structure, surprisingly full of modern relevance. Beattie Bryant (Jessica Raine) returns from London to visit her family who are Norfolk farm labourers. She is full of progressive ideas, all learned from her boyfriend who she is constantly quoting, causing great irritation amongst her relatives. Her chief protagonist is her stubborn, old-fashioned mother (Linda Bassett) and the gradual realisation by the pair that they are essentially the same woman, thrown into different eras, lies at the heart of the drama. The period detail is beautifully realised in James MacDonald’s slowly paced production and the two leading actresses are both superb. Unlike his contemporary, John Osborne, Wesker shows an interest in feminism as well as socialism. This is exemplified in a moment late in the play when Beattie suddenly realises that she is speaking with her own voice and not that of her boyfriend. The expression of sheer joy on Raine’s face at this moment provides what will be one of the most enduring images from 2013 theatre. Beattie then begins a tirade against popular culture which is amazing in it’s prescience and surely a fitting condemnation of much that is wrong in society today.

This review was originally written for The Public Reviews: http://www.thepublicreviews.com

Having begun life as one of a trio of short plays first performed in 2011 under the umbrella title of Dark Tales, this World War II ghost story has been expanded by Ian Breeds to run for 70 minutes. Sadly, the stretched out version is low on thrills and, even at this relatively short length, high on tedium. The central character is Janet, a young schoolgirl who is evacuated from war-torn London to a small English village; having witnessed the death of her brother in the Blitz, she is traumatised and unable to speak.Taken under the wing of Brenda, a local do-gooder, she is placed into the home of George, a whisky swilling widower (likely, even in the more innocent 1940s?), very much against his wishes. Quickly, it becomes apparent that George’s cottage is haunted. We know this because doors and drawers fly open and bang shut unaided, a music box opens itself to play Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, a rocking chair rocks voluntarily and the radio turns itself on just as Vera Lynn (obviously) is beginning a song. The set design (for which no specific credit is given) is the production’s strongest point. On split levels, revealing the living room and Janet’s small bedroom, it captures the right period feel and creates an atmosphere that seems to invite unworldly occurrences. Playing Janet, Maria Victoria Eugenio gets the best deal. Her character is mute so she is exempt from some of the most risible dialogue heard this side VE Day. Sarah Tyler Shaw and Mike Evans, as the two adults, are not so lucky, but they cope as best they can. Breeds gives all three characters back stories, but never develops them further. Each of them could be anyone entering a haunted house, it matters little who they are or where they have come from. This is a great pity as we have seen examples of how powerful a story of the supernatural can become when interwoven with real human drama. For example The Sixth Sense also dealt with an isolated and lonely child who saw ghosts, but the film packed a hefty emotional punch because it developed the child’s story.  In Breeds’ play, any sub-texts are definitely subsidiary and never substantial, making it just a routine and predictable horror story. Yes, there are a few “shock” effects, but these are no scarier than those that can be seen on the Ghost Train at any travelling funfair. This ride is a very hollow and rather pointless experience.

Exploring our place in the Universe and the Universe’s place in us, Rachel Blackman’s new play, created with her company, at first seems too burdened with grandiose and pretentious ideas.  Our initial meeting with it’s two characters is also unpromising, as they tell of their lives through photographs that we cannot see, not helping us to get drawn in and empathise with them. Both are forty-somethings; Leila (Blackman herself) is a frumpy, clumsy museum assistant, inherently a scientist; Shahab (Jules Munns) is a displaced Iranian aspiring film maker, lacking direction and inherently an artist. The play’s conceit is that, just as we were all created by cosmic collisions, so these two lives are transformed when they, quite literally, collide and, at the point of collision, the drama too is transformed. We now have an intensely human story of how a friendship, always platonic, inspires two people to develop as individuals and realise their full potential in life. Superb music and lighting underpin the production, but, mostly it is the outstanding performances that ultimately make this extremely moving.

This review was originally written for The Public Reviewst: http://www.thepublicreviews.com

So the clocks are going back, the gloom of Winter is descending, can there be a more appropriate time for wallowing in a little cynicism? Forget all those songs about love and affection, here is a collection to bomb any rom-com and massacre St Valentine’s Day. The St James Studio is a perfect cabaret venue with a bar in the corner inviting us to drain our half empty bottles and get into the swing of the evening. Already a hit at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, this show is written and performed by Michael Roulston and Sarah-Louise Young, he seated at a grand piano, she taking the lead on most of the songs. They have collaborated as songwriters for seven years, their close rapport being evident in all the numbers and in the amiable banter between them. The pair’s other current show is Julie, Madly, Deeply which is inspired by Julie Andrews, so here they have the perfect antidote to too many spoonfuls of sugar. The anti-romantic mood is established with Let’s Not Fall in Love and, when love threatens to enter the air, Roulston repels it by warning I Play Around. Just as moonlight and roses might inspire some songwriters, in this show the inspiration is the morning after as Young chants Lovers at Breakfast. She moves from here to maternity, delivering the first half showstopper Please Don’t Hand Me Your Baby, the chorus of which leads with the catch line “your baby is ugly”, likely to be repeated by the entire audience for days afterwards. After the interval, Young assumes the guise of her alter ego La Poule Plombee (frumpy pigeon), a suicidal French torch singer. Her set includes a Piaf style rendition of My Little Black Dress and she leads an audience singalong with Malcontent. Returning as herself, Young offers the ultimate put down to any male suitor, singing I Fancy Your Father, the second half showstopper. All the lyrics are bristling with caustic wit, giving us almost a laugh a line, and they are delivered by two seasoned cabaret performers whose presentation and timing are perfection. This was a one-off reprise of the Edinburgh show, but it must surely re-appear. In the meantime, the cd is already available.

A big hit already in New York, Nicky Silver’s acerbic take on dysfunctional family life gets its UK premier here. In Act I, the family gathers around the hospital bed of the dying father (Nicholas Day); the mother (Isla Blair) is a domineering and insensitive matriarch; daughter Lisa (Charlotte Randle) is an alcoholic divorcee with two children; son Curtis (Tom Ellis) is gay and quite seriously disturbed. We watch in discomfort as the four ride roughshod over the sensitivities of each of the others and it is an often hilarious spectacle.  Act II is darker, less funny but more poignant. Events take a darker turn as each member, in different ways, strikes for independence from a family unit that they realise is corroded and corrosive. The production is briskly paced and superbly acted by a British cast, all adopting very convincing New York accents. This is one of the best non-musical productions yet staged at the Menier.

This review was originally written for The Public Reviews: http://www.thepublicreviews.com

Fatherland, along with its companion piece, Motherland, has been conceived by the performance artist Nic Green to explore her Scottish roots and to enhance her understanding of herself in relation to her origins. She performs the piece assisted by three drummers and a piper. When first appearing, she creates a severe image, sporting a sculptured haircut and wearing a natty business suit, but her soft and sympathetic voice quickly belies that image. The performance begins well with a poem about space, describing distance, proximity, detachment and belonging. Green is assisted by male volunteers from the audience who alternate lines or verses with her. The contrasting voices add resonance to the words, making the reading touching and thought-provoking. It is poignant in its content and potent in its style of delivery. Sadly, the poem is much too short and the spoken word is to play very little part in the remainder of the evening. There now follows a protracted sequence in which Green performs steps from a Scottish jig and draws a large chalk circle, presumably defining her personal boundaries and those of her country. She is accompanied by the beating of drums and only the increasing volume of the unrelenting percussion prevents this laborious process from being soporific. Towards the end, any intervention, even that by bag pipes is soothing to the ears. Once enclosed inside her circle, Green performs what could be described as “The Dance of the Seven-Piece Trouser Suit”, removing almost all of her attire. If this dance, like the jig, had originated from the Highlands, it could surely have led to severe cases of frost bite. She prances across the diameter and around the circumference of the circle in a state of near undress, making us feel as if we have stumbled by chance upon some bizarre aerobics class. She seems to be making a bold declaration of the defiance and vulnerability embodied in the Scottish spirit, but she is personifying much less the dignity of her proud nation. In the midst of all the symbolism, we are entitled to ask whether any of this really informs us or even entertains us. Never mind, consolation is at hand as bottles of Scotland’s finest produce are passed around the audience. It hardly matters that being served spirits by a topless waitress belongs more to the heritage of Soho than to that of Scotland, as no-one is complaining. Soon Green exclaims “I don’t know how to end it”, but the temptation to shout back *as soon as possible” is resisted. By now the golden nectar has begun to cast its spell and a more appropriate response seems to be “another dram please”.